


Cucumisio!

by voksen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Crack, Gen, Kink Meme, Transformation, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:06:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't actually have any excuses for this.</p><p>Prompt: My spell check keeps insisting that Combeferre is a cucumber. So my request is a crack!fic with where Combeferre is or turns into a cucumber.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I should have known," Javert said, bitter weariness sinking into him, "that you would kill with a knife."

Valjean approached him and he held his ground; if he was going to die in a dirty alley, guts spilled over the ground by a convict's blade, by God he'd do it with whatever dignity he could.

Behind Valjean, in the back door of the cafe, one of the idiot schoolboys appeared, carbine in hand. Come to see that Valjean finished the job, no doubt, Javert thought - but when the light from the cafe struck the knifeblade, glinting out, the boy cried: "Monsieur! What are you doing? We do not _torture--"_

He took aim with the rifle, pointing it not at Javert but at _Valjean_ , and Javert, seized by some strange fit, said "Valjean!" in warning.

Valjean spun, saw the gun, the boy's finger on the trigger.

"Step away, monsieur," the boy said. Javert could almost admire his calmness.

"It's not--" Valjean said.

"Step away," he repeated. "Even a spy deserves a clean death. Enjolras did so much before - I will do so much for Prouvaire's sake."

"You don't understand," said Valjean. "I--"

The boy raised the rifle, pointedly, and Valjean stepped away, dropping the knife onto the ground and opening his hands wide - then, suddenly, pointed at the boy and snapped out _"Cucumisio!"_

An inexplicable, impossible streak of light shot from Valjean's finger, striking the boy - who disappeared. _Disappeared,_ the carbine and something else Javert could not quite discern falling to the ground.

Valjean hurried over and picked up both objects; Javert sagged against the wall, trying to make sense of a world that seemed to be rapidly slipping out of his grasp.

"Damn," Valjean said softly, stooping for his knife as well. He slung the carbine across his back, stood, came to Javert, and sliced the bindings on his wrists clean off. Javert stared.

Valjean reached into the breast of his jacket, and pulled out a loaf of bread. He cut it in half.

"Valjean," said Javert.

"Quiet," said Valjean, and tucked the split loaf under his arm. In his hands he held his knife and the thing he had picked up from the ground where the boy had disappeared. So close, Javert could see it better now. It was long and green. It looked like a cucumber.

Valjean sliced it in half. It was a cucumber.

Putting the knife back away, Valjean sandwiched the cucumber slices between the bread halves, tore the whole thing in half again, and pushed one piece into Javert's hands. "Eat quickly," he said. "There isn't any time."

Javert looked down. He looked up at Valjean again.

"I don't understand," he said.

Valjean rolled his eyes expressively and mumbled something through a mouthful of cucumber-and-bread.

Hesitantly, Javert raised the sandwich to his mouth and bit in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, my friends, _don't ask me_

Javert stumbled through the night, leaving the sound and light of the barricade behind him. He could not, much as he wished, leave his memory with it - the sight of that boy disappearing into nothingness - the calm entrancing command of Jean Valjean's voice - the clean sharp taste of cucumber. The half-sandwich he had eaten sat strangely in his stomach, a dull weighty lump more like prison slop than the fine white bread Valjean had given him.

Everything was wrong. Everything was turned on end and nothing made sense, least of all Valjean turning him loose; least of all Valjean providing Javert his address - _his address_ \- and telling him to await him there. It went beyond provoking doubt. It beggared belief.

He did not go to the police station; he did not report back to the guard. He should have, surely, but he was no more capable of it than he was capable of breaking the law himself. Instead he went seeking answers in the only place he knew to look: Rue de l'Homme Arme no. 5.

By the time he reached the house he was half-faint, sick in both body and soul; he hammered roughly at the door of the apartment for an eternity before it opened.

A young woman stood there. Javert, in his distraction, took a long moment to recognize her before it all descended on him at once in a flurry of memory: the whore, the whore's child, the inn - Thenardier, Jondrette, the girl in the square, what had he called her? It had been something fully as ridiculous as his other daughter's name.

"Courgette," he said.

Courgette - if he had remembered properly - blinked at him quite prettily. "Oh," she said, "Papa, what have you done?"

"I'm not," Javert said, and then clapped his hand abruptly over his mouth, doubling over as the cucumber sandwich threatened to make a rude reappearance.

Her hands clasped about his elbow and pulled him into Valjean's lair; he was barely aware of the noise of the door shutting behind him, so concentrated was he on the strange stretching agony.

"Sit down, please," Courgette said. Javert let her guide him to a chair and collapsed into it; the movement sent cold sweat breaking out across his face and down the back of his neck.

Valjean must have poisoned him, he thought dizzily. Except that Valjean had eaten half of the sandwich himself. By the time he roused himself enough to notice fingers at the buttons of his waistcoat it was too late - she had pushed it open, leaving him in his shirt only, and laid a hand on his stomach. It was indecent, it was somehow deeply terrifying, it was... "No --"

_"Cucumisio!"_

He had heard the word before, Valjean had said it just before--

Javert's insides twisted relentlessly, an unnatural writhing that had him jerking away, trying to get as far from the torturing hand on him as he could, trying to escape and accomplishing nothing but knocking the chair over backwards. The impact stunned him for an instant; when he recovered his senses his body, too, seemed wholly recovered without even the dragging weight that had afflicted him on the walk from the cafe. He scrambled to his feet immediately, disentangling himself from the chair and backing away.

Before him Courgette stood open-mouthed and staring at a suddenly-appeared figure. Javert could not help but stare, either: it was the young man from the alleyway.

"But you're not Marius," Courgette said.

"No," the man said. He seemed as dazed as Javert had until recently felt; his hair was tousled, his clothes askew. 

"Oh," she said. She looked disappointed for a moment, but then rallied, reaching out and taking his unresisting hands in her own. "I'm called--" She paused for a split second; her eyes flicked to Javert's, an unmistakable warning burning in them, "--Cosette."

"C-combeferre," he stammered.

Javert was quite sure that whatever Thenardier had said, it had not been _Cosette_. He edged along the wall as Courgette returned her attention to Combeferre. The doorway was not so very far. Whatever had happened here, whatever had happened in that alley, it was something he did not understand and had no wish to understand.

"Inspector," Courgette said around Combeferre's shoulder as she comforted him. "Please bring Papa home safely."

Javert fled.


End file.
